


those mad sounds

by flowermasters



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allison isn't dead: tell your friends, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Depression, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, McCall Pack, Minor Allison Argent/Isaac Lahey, Minor Scott McCall/Kira Yukimura, Not Canon Compliant, POV Female Character, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prom, wow never thought i'd use that tag for teen wolf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 15:51:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1353091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowermasters/pseuds/flowermasters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles stares at her as if she's abruptly sprouted dragon wings. "Prom - with you?" he repeats blankly. "Like - go to prom with you?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	those mad sounds

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't mean for this to be an AU, but I started writing this way before the events of 3x23 happened and I had too much written to feel like going back and editing the shit out of it. Besides, Allison isn't really dead, right? ... Right?!
> 
> Warnings for: Everyone lives AU, discussions of depression and PTSD, one panic attack, no real plot other than some high school sap that these kids desperately need. This has a happy ending, however, because I can't seem to do sad endings very well.
> 
> Title comes from 'Mad Sounds' by Arctic Monkeys. I've gotta stop naming my fics after their songs ... although, just imagine Stiles and Lydia dancing to 'Mad Sounds'. Just do it.

Their group - their pack, if it can really be called that - is so small that the absence of one member is painfully hard to ignore - it's like a missing limb. True, Stiles is gone more often than not these days, but the table is just a bit too quiet without his chattering. But really, Lydia thinks, the table has been too quiet for months; even when he is at school (he's averaging about 3.5 days a week, if her math is right - and it always is), Stiles doesn't ramble on the way he used to. Lydia would deny it if asked, but truthfully, she misses his voice the way she might miss an arm or a leg if she lost it. She's made adjustments, grown used to living without it the way she once did with ease, but it just isn't the same.

She can't blame Stiles for skipping school so often, though. She's been controlled before, brutalized and used and slowly driven mad; she's intimately familiar with the feelings he's battling. Granted, she'd never killed anyone while in a Peter-induced hallucination - but the sense of violation is still there. It's taken her this long to be able to shake off the pangs of nausea she gets when she meets Peter's steely eyes, so Stiles is more than entitled to his bout of depression.

That doesn't mean it isn't worrisome for the rest of them, though. Scott hesitantly broaches the topic midway through lunch. "No one's gotten anything -  _bad_  from Stiles, have they?" They all know what  _bad_  means, but Scott can't seem to bring himself to voice it. Scott's dealt with his fair share of  _bad_  ( _there's no hope_ , Lydia remembers him saying, his voice empty and his face lit only by the flickering light from a road flare), but somehow, talking about Stiles in that way seems to pain him more than anything else.

Everyone shakes their heads. Lydia  _had_  messaged Stiles earlier to tell him about their homework assignment for Finstock's class, and he'd replied with a very Stiles-ish,  _Roger that. Thanks._  She'd almost texted back to ask how he's doing - she'd even typed out  _Are you okay?_  - but at the last moment, she'd stopped herself. She doesn't want to remind him that he's  _not okay_ (assuming he could possibly forget.) But it can't be too bad if he's capable of texting her back, right? He would tell her if he needed her, she thinks ( _she hopes_.)

"Maybe we should do something," Kira suggests, as she picks up a shiny green grape and pops it into her mouth. "To cheer him up a little, I mean."

"I wish it was that easy," Scott says somberly.

"We've  _done stuff_ ," Allison points out. "We do stuff together all the time."

They've all been through enough shit to know that a few bowling dates and some outings to the movies aren't going to help Stiles in the long run, but they keep trying. Lydia supposes it can't exactly hurt. There's a second or two of silence before Isaac suddenly asks, "What about prom?"

"Prom?" Allison repeats, giving him a confused look.

"Yeah," Isaac says. "Might be a good time. It's in like a month, right?"

"Three weeks and five days, to be exact," Lydia says lightly. Try as she might, she's having a hard time imagining Stiles at prom this year, even if he's with the group. But then she thinks back to the formal last year, when they'd danced together (before she'd slipped out to the lacrosse field and - well, that was the end of one era of her life and the beginning of a very confusing, dangerous sequel) and he'd told her all about how she's going to win the Fields Medal someday (which she'd already known, but it had been nice to hear it from someone else for once.) She'd practically been able to feel the happiness pouring off of him while they danced - how strange that she can even remember that, after everything else that had happened that night. Maybe prom is worth a shot after all, even if it is just a shot in the dark at making Stiles happy for a little while.

Lydia can tell Scott is thinking along those same lines, because he says, "I mean, I guess I can talk to him about it. He and I always kind of figured we'd end up going together anyway."

"But aren't you two going together?" Lydia asks, looking back and forth between Scott and Kira. Scott's cheeks flush pink, and Kira is suddenly very, very fixated on the bag of pretzels next to her grapes, her mouth twitching like she might smile. Lydia had expected that they would have established this long ago, but perhaps not. She's positive they're going together, though, whether they know it or not.

"Anyway," Allison says quickly, before Scott and Kira suffer any longer. "We can all go as a group, can't we?"

"I'm going to take him," Lydia announces suddenly, and predictably, everyone looks surprised (although there's a hint of satisfaction in Allison's eyes that Lydia is  _definitely_  going to ignore.)

"You don't have to do that," Scott assures her. She realizes how this must look - it probably looks like she feels pressured to do it, or like she's doing it out of nothing but pity for a lonely, broken boy - but Lydia has long been through with allowing others to dictate her actions. This is her choice and no one else's.

"I know," Lydia replies, primly, as she lifts her lunch tray and rises to her feet. The bell's going to ring within the next minute or two, and she doesn't want to linger in this awkward moment any longer, even if these are her closest friends. She doesn't want to have to say, _I'm doing it because I'd do anything to make him happy._  She's not sure if she can rationalize that thought yet, even to herself, but she's already made up her mind. She's going to ask Stiles Stilinski to prom.

She refuses to let herself overthink this decision. She's doing it because Stiles is her friend, and the group needs him, just like he needs them. It's as simple as that. (Really, though, she's doing it because Stiles is a sucker for things like prom and she knows it, and because it still feels like a punch to the gut to look into his eyes and see absolutely nothing but anger and sadness and crushing, overwhelming guilt -  _stop overthinking_.) So, her policy of not overthinking it is what brings her straight to Stiles's house after school, under the guise of helping him with his homework (well, she actually  _does_  intend to do that, but her main goal is to convince him to go to prom.)

The sheriff's car isn't there when Lydia pulls up, but the jeep is (of course). She has to wait at least a minute after ringing the doorbell before finally, the lock clicks faintly and the door swings open. Stiles looks rumpled but alert, still clad in his pajamas. For some reason, the sight of him, barefoot and in a criminally oversized t-shirt, fills Lydia with a sudden rush of affection, mingled with - sorrow? Pity? Protectiveness? She can't quite put her finger on it, so she quickly shakes off the thought and says, "Hey."

"Hey," Stiles replies, leaning his shoulder against the edge of the door and meeting her eyes evenly. She takes that as a good sign. "How'd you know?"

"How did I know what?" Lydia asks, raising her eyebrows.

"That I would have absolutely no idea what to do on the homework."

Lydia gives him a little smile quite without meaning to. "I guess my banshee senses were tingling." The word still feels foreign on her tongue (banshee -  _the wailing woman; a banshee right before my eyes_ , Ms. Blake had said), still doesn't feel like something she can identify as, but maybe joking about it will make it feel less strange. Maybe.

Stiles steps aside to let her in, and as she passes him, he says, "Nice. I didn't know you were a Spiderman fan."

"I'm not," Lydia says mildly. "That's just a fairly common reference in pop culture."

Stiles shrugs. "True. I'd try to convince you to watch the movies sometime, but I already know you won't."

Lydia opens her mouth to speak -  _I might if you were with me_ \- then thinks better of it. After a slight hesitation, she says, "So. Finstock's homework."

"Right," Stiles says, and then motions for her to follow as he leads the way to his bedroom. Lydia's been here plenty of times before, but it's strange to walk through this house without a nearly constant stream of chatter coming from Stiles. There she goes again - missing Stiles's voice, of all things. It's getting a bit ridiculous, her attachment to his inane rambling.

What's even more ridiculous is that he's right in front of her and yet he still feels almost lost to her. She wants to reach for him (she doesn't) and make him better (but she can't).

Once they're in his room, she makes a beeline for his bed - an almost Pavlovian response after so many days and nights spent here, trying to figure out the supernatural problem of the week. She abandons her pumps on the way and makes herself comfortable on the bed (the sheets of which are rumpled but made), not entirely aware of what she's doing until she notices that Stiles is watching her. He's just standing there, by the door, with a slightly surprised look on his face. She's suddenly self-conscious, wondering if she's somehow been too forward, but when her eyes meet his, she recognizes a familiar warmth that she hasn't seen in quite a while. It heartens her a bit.

Stiles seems to snap out of the moment before she does, which is unusual since there's no pressing task at hand for him to fret over. He walks over to his desk and, after a moment of hesitation, retrieves his spiral notebook and his Econ book from his desk before slowly approaching the bed and sitting down next to her. His careful way of sitting down on his own bed confuses her slightly, but then she thinks that he's probably just wary of making her uncomfortable. She wants to tell him that if she was uncomfortable with him she wouldn't have come into his house alone and sat down on his bed like she owned the place, but she figures he'd probably rather talk about economics than acknowledge the elephant in the room, so she leaves well enough alone and launches into a brief summary of Finstock's class.

Stiles might not be a certifiable genius like Lydia, but he is the smartest person she knows, other than herself. It only takes about five minutes of explanation until she can practically see a light bulb come on over his head, and he quickly starts working out the remaining homework problems. Lydia's gotten pretty good at deciphering the messy scrawl he calls penmanship, so she checks after him as he works. She's watching his face as he looks down at his book (lips pressed together and brow furrowed, his focus lasting for the time being) when, all of a sudden, her mouth opens and words just start to slip out. "Stiles, how do you feel about prom?"

He looks up at her, his concentration breaking just like that. "Prom?" he says, befuddled. She nods. "Prom is . . .  _prom_. An American rite of passage, et cetera. Why?"

She's already wishing she'd found a more elegant way to bring up the subject, but it's too late now. "Do you have any plans for prom this year?" she asks.

Stiles shakes his head. "Um, I haven't really thought about it. It's in a few weeks, right?"

Lydia decides she might as well just spit it out. Beating around the bush has never been a favored tactic of hers. "Do you  _want_ prom plans?" she asks. "With me?"

Stiles stares at her as if she's abruptly sprouted dragon wings. "Prom - with you?" he repeats blankly. "Like -  _go to_  prom with you?"

"Yes or no will suffice," Lydia says, her tone slightly brittle. This plan had always been doomed to fail, she thinks - of course Stiles doesn't want to go to prom, even if it is with her - although she really can't be sure if he still likes her the way that he used to, given everything that's happened over the past few months. Maybe his feelings have changed. Maybe the nogitsune really  _did_  break him. Lydia becomes painfully conscious of the fact that she's overthinking things again. She also suddenly notices that Stiles is now staring at his fingers instead of her.

"Stiles?" she says, and his attention returns to her immediately.

"I had to make sure I wasn't dreaming," he blurts, like that's the most logical response in the world. The whole counting fingers thing clicks a second later, but she doesn't get a chance to dwell on the thought before Stiles quickly continues. "Are you - are you serious?"

"Extremely serious," Lydia says, crossing her legs just for the sake of doing something. There's a sudden fluttering sensation in her stomach, the stereotypical tickling of butterfly wings, and  _wow_ , she really wishes Stiles would say yes or no already. The idea of being nervous unsettles her even more than the actual nerves do; since when has any boy ever made her  _nervous_?

"Nobody put you up to this, right?" Stiles asks, almost hesitantly.

"This isn't junior high, Stiles," she points out, rolling her eyes with a nonchalance she doesn't entirely possess. "No one  _puts people up to_  anything." Technically, Lydia hadn't even thought of the idea until Isaac's comment, but no one had asked her to do it, and certainly no one had  _told_  her to. She actually wants to do this, as surprising as it might be to just about everyone.

"So you really want to go to prom with me," Stiles says. "Just you and me or -,"

"Just you and me," Lydia agrees, the words springing from her, unbidden. "I mean, everyone's going to be there. But you'll be with me."

Stiles studies her for a minute longer, and then he smiles. It's not one of his old grins, silly and full of joy and life, but it's the brightest smile she's seen from him in a  _while_. The butterflies are back, but in an entirely different way, and Lydia is only slightly less alarmed by them than she is by the smile that's suddenly spreading across her own face. "Um, yeah," he says, finally. "Yeah, that sounds cool. Great, actually. Awesome."

"Would you like a thesaurus?" Lydia asks, cutting him off before he can run through any more adjectives. He snickers - with  _actual amusement_ \- and she resists the urge to cheer. So far she's gotten a genuine smile, a laugh, and a prom date; that's certainly better than she'd expected on the Stiles front today.

She gets up to leave not long after that, because Stiles's father will be home soon and she doesn't really want to stick around while Stiles tells the sheriff he's going to prom with her (there are some things that are just too awkward to deal with.) As she's on her way out the door, Stiles catches her lightly by the arm (he insists on walking her out, of course.) "Lydia."

She turns her head to look at him, a little too aware of his long, thin fingers and the way they've slid down her forearm to loosely circle her wrist. "Yeah?"

He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it and contemplates her for a second, giving her the expression she's come to recognize as his  _thinking face_. She knows what he's going to ask - she's been waiting for this question for the past twenty minutes, ever since he'd agreed to go. The inevitable  _"Just as friends?"_ question. But, much to her surprise, Stiles just - lets it go. He offers her a little half-smile and his fingers slip away from her wrist, and to her surprise, she misses the contact, just a little bit. "Nothing," he says. "Thanks for coming by."

"No problem," she says quietly, holding his gaze for a second before looking away. "See you at school tomorrow?" she asks, her tone casual (but feigned).

"Maybe," Stiles says. He doesn't even bother to bullshit her about this - not anymore, at least.

Her gaze flits to his again, and then she turns and steps out the door. "Bye," she calls over her shoulder.

"Bye, Lydia," he says, and she doesn't hear his front door shut until after she's made it to her car.

The first thing she does after she gets home is text Scott.  _Take Stiles to look for a tux soon. As in this weekend. And ask Kira to prom already!_

 _I want it to be romantic, okay_ is his reply. Lydia rolls her eyes and doesn't text back, leaving Scott to plan out how he's going to ask Kira on his own. In the meantime, she does her econ homework (it takes her approximately 5 minutes, and a chunk of that is spent trying to locate her pen.) Her phone suddenly lights up with a text message from Allison.  _The boys are all going tux-hunting on Saturday_.  _Stiles included._

 _Good_ , Lydia responds.  _Whatever formal wear they already have will not suffice._

_Are we just not going to talk about the fact that you're taking Stiles to prom?_

_You seem to be totally up to speed on the subject._

_But are you?_

_Absolutely_ , Lydia sends back, mildly irritated that Allison seems to know something Lydia doesn't. But for her own sake, she decides not to question it and instead goes to her closet and removes her prom dress from its protective plastic sheath. She snaps a close-up picture of the sequined blue fabric and sends it to Stiles with the caption,  _Matching is key._

His reply is instantaneous.  _Got it,_ he says.  _Can't wait to see you in it._

Lydia tries, and only sort of succeeds, to bite back a smile, sudden warmth filling her chest. With that alarmingly sappy response, she decides to ignore all prom-related messages for the rest of the night.

Stiles does indeed show up at school the next morning, although the whole prom thing doesn't magically change his entire demeanor - not that Lydia had really expected it would. The only thing that changes immediately is Stiles starts walking with her to class more frequently, the way he used to; over the past few months, he's rarely left Scott's side for long enough to meet up with her (but Lydia knows that's Scott's doing more than anything else.) Lydia takes this as yet another small victory.

That Saturday rolls around, and Lydia spends it leisurely. Around three o'clock in the afternoon, she gets a message from Stiles. It's a picture of him standing in a dressing room, wearing a suit, complete with a royal blue vest that matches Lydia's dress. He's doing what he seems to think is a male model's pose in the mirror. He's also sent:  _Look ok? Hope the blue is royal enough._

Lydia doesn't realize she's smiling until after she's already sent back,  _It looks great._ Stiles doesn't text her back immediately (hopefully he's too busy doing teenage boy things with Scott and Isaac - God knows he needs to be stupid and carefree for a while, if he can manage it), but Lydia doesn't close out of the conversation or put down her phone. She lingers a second, still looking at the picture. It reminds her of the old Stiles, the silly Stiles who wouldn't hesitate to give someone bunny ears in a serious photo, who babbled and laughed and occasionally (okay, frequently) gesticulated so wildly he became a danger to those around him. If she ignores the dark shadows that linger under his eyes, she can almost pretend he's the same as always. She sets the picture as his contact photo in her phone, because she really doesn't want to forget that maybe, just maybe, the bits and pieces of Stiles  _can_  be put back together again.

Things continue in the normal routine in the following weeks - Stiles still misses a lot of school, but he knows who to call if he falls behind. Prom, when it comes up, is discussed in a delicate and borderline impersonal way. Stiles still hasn't asked the  _just friends_ question. Lydia is caught between dreading it and wishing he would  _just_   _fucking ask already_. She doesn't know what she's going to say when he does ask, however. Her mind says just friends but her body says stupid butterflies in her stomach and flush on her cheeks. Nothing makes sense anymore.

Fortunately for her (well, not really), Stiles never mentions it. She's still waiting for the question on the night of prom, right until the moment when Stiles arrives to pick her up. She's touching up her hair when distantly, she hears the doorbell ring. "I'll get it," she hollers, just in case her mother happens to be struck by a sudden whim to get involved in her daughter's personal life. Lydia hurries to get the door, and when she opens it, she finds Stiles standing on the stoop, clutching a bouquet of roses to his chest with one hand and holding a corsage in the other.

He looks good - better than he has in months, actually, although that's due in part to the suit and the fact that he's actually made an effort to style his hair. He's also staring at her with those big Bambi eyes of his, a slightly dazed expression on his face. Lydia smiles. "Hey."

"Hey," Stiles replies, recovering slightly. "You look amazing."

"Thank you," Lydia says, irrationally pleased as ever to get a compliment from him. "You didn't have to get me flowers, you know."

"They're not for you, actually," he says. When she raises her eyebrows at him, he elaborates, "They're for your mom. The internet said it's polite, and the lady at the florist's agreed."

Lydia rolls her eyes, because he's absolutely ridiculous, but she can't seem to stop smiling. "Come inside," she says, stepping away from the door. He does, and she takes the flowers from him and heads to the kitchen to locate a vase. Naturally, he follows. When she's handled the flower situation, she turns to look at him to see that he's removed the corsage from its protective plastic case and is offering it to her.

"I hope it's okay that I got this for you," Stiles says. He makes an aborted gesture to run his fingers through his hair, then seems to realize at the last minute that touching it will ruin the semi-neat look he's achieved. "The websites I checked all said that -,"

"It's okay, Stiles," Lydia says, before he can get all worked up over nothing. She offers him her wrist. "Put it on me."

He wraps a gentle hand around her forearm, holding her steady while he slides the corsage onto her wrist. She remembers the day she'd asked him to prom, how delicately he'd touched her arm as she left, and she blushes. This feels the same - but not, because his fingers are trembling slightly now. She has an abrupt urge to throw her arms around him, but that sudden display of overwhelming affection might just alarm him - Lydia is known for playing hard to get, after all, and holding him until he stops shaking is decidedly  _not_ hard to get.

"I didn't get you a boutonnière," Lydia tells him instead. She didn't think to do it because she honestly hadn't expected him to get her a corsage (they're not a given anymore - this isn't 1950, after all), but she supposes she should have known better. "Sorry."

"That's okay," Stiles says automatically, but Lydia has already figured out a solution, of course. She locates a pair of scissors and snips one of the roses, carefully rearranging the bouquet before moving to stand in front of Stiles. She gently slides the stem into the buttonhole on his lapel. While she's at it, she straightens his tie, her hands lingering on his chest for just a beat too long, her eyes catching his for a split second before she steps away.

"Just let me get my bag, and we can go," she tells him, as primly as she can manage. She returns to her room and grabs her silver clutch, which is already crammed full with everything she could possibly need, and heads back to Stiles. He's still in the kitchen, fidgeting absently with the rose on his chest. "It looks fine," she tells him, reading his nervous expression easily. "You look fine."

"Thanks," he says, before offering her his arm. She bites back a smile and gently grabs his forearm, and they walk side-by-side out to the jeep. Something about her touch seems to calm his nerves slightly, because they fall into a meaningless conversation as Stiles drives to the school. All talking comes to a halt once they pull into the student lot of Beacon Hills High, however.

"So," Stiles says, looking ahead, on the building. "Prom."

"Prom," Lydia confirms, her own gaze fixed on him.

"Did you ever think we'd make it here?" Stiles asks, shifting slightly and looking over at her, finally. "To prom, I mean."

Lydia hesitates. "What do you mean?" she asks. "Are you asking if I thought  _we'd_  make it here together, or if I thought -?"

"I'm asking if you thought we'd all die before we ever got the chance," Stiles clarifies. Lydia hears the unspoken  _because I did_  hanging on to the end of his sentence. The look in his eyes is suddenly bare, exposed. Lydia's heart hurts.

"Yeah," she answers honestly, after a moment's pause. "I did, once or twice."

"Me, too," Stiles says.

Lydia reaches out and squeezes his forearm lightly. "Come on," she says, finally, trying to smile. "Let's go inside."

Stiles doesn't open her door for her or anything like that (probably because she doesn't give him enough time to make it around to her side of the car), but he does immediately fall into step with her as they walk up to the school. They present their tickets at the door and then make their way to the gym, which is nearly unrecognizable due to the sheer amount of purple crêpe paper hanging everywhere (although the ubiquitous gymnasium smell of sweat and adolescent angst is impossible to disguise.) Lydia starts scanning the room, looking for their friends, but Stiles has gone still next to her, lingering awkwardly in the doorway. She realizes why quickly enough; a handful of people have noticed their arrival, and several of those people are openly staring. Lydia had almost forgotten that someone like her going to prom with someone like Stiles might cause a stir - a random school dance in sophomore year is one thing, but prom is a much bigger deal, after all. Plus, it doesn't help that it's common knowledge among the student body that both Stiles and Lydia have had recent mental breakdowns (which  _is_  true, but only halfway.) Stiles might have expected this, but he clearly doesn't know how to handle it. Fortunately for him, Lydia does.

She tilts her head upwards ever so slightly, expression cool, her eyes landing on Scott, who is standing across the room near the punch bowl, too fixated on Kira to notice that Stiles and Lydia have appeared. Lydia grabs Stiles's hand without a second thought and leads the way across the room, skirting the crowd in the center (normally she would march right through it and let everyone get their fill of staring, but she's keeping Stiles's fragile nerves in mind here) to reach Scott and Kira. Scott, alerted by Kira, is already turning to look when Lydia and Stiles step up beside him. "Hey," Scott says, smiling broadly at them. He looks slightly relieved, as if he'd been expecting something would prevent them from making it. Lydia supposes he could have easily been right.

"Well, don't you two clean up nicely," Lydia says, figuring nonchalance is the best way to go here. They both really do look nice in their matching tones of red, but they're not bad-looking to begin with, so Lydia isn't too surprised. "Where are Allison and Isaac?"

Scott shrugs. "Isaac left before I did," he says. "Maybe they went to eat."

"Maybe," Lydia agrees mildly, although she's pretty sure that Allison and Isaac are doing something much more fun than that.

Stiles still hasn't said anything, which worries her a tad, but when Lydia looks over at him, he seems happy enough. If Lydia can keep him around their friends and their friends only, she might actually be able to make this a good night for him - just to give him one shiny, happy memory from a long and shitty junior year. Lydia abruptly realizes that she's still holding his hand, and that at some point he's twined their fingers together, but unless his hand starts getting sweaty, she isn't going to let go. If this gesture offers him some support (and maybe it gives her some, too, but she won't admit it), she's okay with it.

Things are actually, well,  _good_  for a while. Lydia and Stiles stick with Scott and Kira, and then Allison and Isaac show up around thirty minutes later and join them. They make casual conversation and laugh and just hang out, and even Stiles looks like he's having a good time. He doesn't leave Lydia's side, though, and their hands haven't separated yet.

They've been there for about forty-five minutes when Kira starts slowly edging towards the dance floor (also known as the middle of the gym). Scott finally catches on when Kira says wistfully, "Oh, I love this song . . ."

He takes her by the hand and leads her towards the dance floor, glancing over his shoulder at the rest of them as he goes, as if trying to make sure everything's going to be okay while he dances with his girlfriend for four minutes. Lydia rolls her eyes and silently mouths  _go_ , and he smiles before turning his attention back to Kira, who's beaming at him. There's a moment of hesitation while Allison stares expectantly at Isaac, and when he doesn't notice her eyes on him after several seconds, she asks, "Isaac, do you want to dance?"

"Uh, sure," Isaac says, in a way that indicates he hadn't been planning on it at all. Allison smiles and they peel off for the dance floor, too, leaving Stiles and Lydia alone. It's not awkward, but it is quiet. Lydia is suddenly struck by déjà vu, remembering their first dance. The memories are a little blurry, overshadowed by other, more traumatic events, but she vaguely remembers him saying, in his typical frenetic way,  _get off your cute little ass and dance with me now._

"Do you want some punch?" he asks her.

Simultaneously, she asks, "Do you want to dance?"

He blinks at her several times, surprised. She smiles a little, and after a minute, he smiles back and nods. "Uh, yeah. Sounds good."

She leads the way to the center of the gym, and a moment later, they're dancing - nothing too fancy, just revolving slowly. Even with her heels on, Lydia's still short enough to rest her head on his shoulder, and she'd be lying if she said she didn't like it that way. She can smell his aftershave like this, and it's familiar and yet strangely enticing. The scent makes her suddenly aware that her lips are only inches away from his neck, his jaw, his mouth.

"People are still looking at us," Stiles says suddenly, his voice low.

Lydia tilts her head so that she can look at his face. "Ignore them," she suggests. "Look at me instead."

He smiles wryly. "Okay," he replies. "But I gotta tell you, people will say we're in love." It's a relief to hear him joking, even if those words do make Lydia's heart ache.

"Let them," Lydia says, tilting her chin up. "I don't care what any of them think any more. Do you?" Her gaze flicks around the room once but returns to his quickly enough, her eyes drawn to his by some kind of magnetism Lydia can't hope to understand. At least, not yet. Lydia can understand anything if she puts her mind to it, after all.

Stiles still hasn't answered her question. He's just looking at her, all big dark eyes and ever-so-slightly parted lips. They're just swaying now, not even bothering to spin. There's a sudden, tell-tale fluttering of butterfly wings in her stomach. She's still looking at Stiles, and all of a sudden she thinks,  _he's going to kiss me._ She knows it, she just knows, and he's going to kiss her now -

He doesn't.

Stiles's hands fall from her waist suddenly, and Lydia opens her eyes, slightly confused and wondering when she'd closed them in the first place. She swallows down embarrassment, but it fades when she realizes what Stiles is doing. He's counting his fingers.

"Stiles," she says softly, as the last strains of the song fade away.

There's an apology in his eyes, mingled with embarrassment and growing discomfort. "I'm sorry," he says. "I just - I don't know -,"

Lydia knows that she has to get him out of here. She takes his hand and starts tugging him towards the door. "Come on," she says, and he swallows visibly and follows her without a word.

They make it to the jeep without incident, and Stiles starts driving. Lydia wants to ask him where he's going, but he pulls into a random parking lot and just stops, looking as if he doesn't really know where he's heading either. He looks like a kicked puppy when he says, "I'm sorry about -  _that_ , I just . . ." He makes a vague waving gesture with his hands.

Lydia watches him. "Why do you do that?" she asks. "Count your fingers, I mean." She's pretty sure she already knows the answer, but she wants to hear it from his mouth. For too long she's been treating him delicately (they all have), like if she waits long enough he's just going to magically get better. That ends now, she decides.

"Oh," Stiles says. "You noticed."

Lydia raises her eyebrows at him, and he reaches up to run a hand through his hair, mussing it. "Of course you did."

"Are you going to tell me?" she asks. "Or do I have to extrapolate?"

"Go ahead. I'd love to hear your theories." Sarcasm leaks into his tone, and Lydia would be pleased if not for the overwhelming load of bitterness that accompanies it. Stiles doesn't talk to her like that, not ever, not unless something is wrong.

She lets silence fall between them for a moment as she studies him, her gaze lingering on the dark circles that have made a home under his eyes for months. If he hadn't gained back some weight and invested in a tube of ChapStick since, he'd still look like the boy who slowly wasted away while an evil spirit used him as a puppet. He still  _is_  that boy, technically speaking, and that's what scares the shit out of Lydia. "You can't tell if you're dreaming or not," Lydia finally says, and when his fists clench slightly, she knows she's hit the nail right on the head. "You don't know what's real anymore."

He doesn't respond, just stares out the windshield, so Lydia asks, "Have you told anyone? Your dad? Scott?"

"No," Stiles says. "There's not much point, really. What can they do?"

 _Help you_ , Lydia wants to say, but then she realizes that's the whole problem. They don't know how. How do you help someone who isn't even sure you're real?

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asks. "Did it not occur to you that I might be able to offer some insight here?" She has personal experience with this sort of thing, after all, and Stiles knows that very well. She's not sure how much good commiserating over their possession experiences will do, but it's got to be better than  _nothing._

"I couldn't tell you," Stiles says. "It's worse when I'm around you."

Lydia stares at him blankly. "Me?" she says, baffled. "Why?"

"Because," Stiles says heavily, "you were in my dreams the most."

She waits for him to elaborate, and finally, he does. "I remember one where you - you were in my bed," he says quietly, shooting her an embarrassed look. "Not - like  _that_. But you were there. And in my dream I woke up, and I was so sure that there was something  _beyond_ my bedroom door. You were begging me not to open the door." He pauses, then adds, "I didn't listen."

Lydia nods, absorbing this information. But Stiles isn't finished. "I spent a lot of time trapped in my own head, you know," he says. "And he liked to taunt me. With Scott, my dad . . . and you. I was never sure if what he was saying was true or not."

"But I'm real," she tells him. "This is real, and he's gone." She has no qualms about referring to the nogitsune as just that, a nogitsune, but this is Stiles's Peter, and she still doesn't like to think about Peter Hale and his slimy smile, so she understands.

"I know that  _now_ ," he replies. "But I just - get these  _thoughts_. Like his voice is still in my head, sometimes. Every time something good happens, I wonder if you're going to - to fade away, or start screaming and crying, or if I'm going to - if . . ." he stops, seemingly unable to continue, but then he blurts out, "He used to tell me he was going to kill you, you know. He was going to choke you and make me watch. He was going to make  _me_  do it."

Stiles is starting to freak out now, wringing his hands nervously and staring at her with wide eyes, perhaps waiting for the sudden, foreign urge to wring her neck. Lydia trusts him enough to know that it won't come; Stiles isn't truly capable of hurting anyone, let alone her. "But he didn't," Lydia says. "He didn't hurt me and neither did you." The nogitsune did kidnap her, of course, and he had scared her, but Stiles doesn't need to know the intimate details of that. He never needs to know about that.

"He could have," Stiles argues, shaking his head rapidly. "He could do whatever he wanted with me, and I couldn't stop him - he nearly disemboweled Scott, for God's sake, and I -"

He's all worked up, getting dangerously close to panic attack territory, and Lydia can't let him make it all the way there. Seeing Stiles in that kind of distress makes her do ridiculous, impulsive things, like kissing him or moving out of her seat and climbing into his lap -  _oh God_ , what the hell is she doing? Lydia realizes she's practically on top of him, and she freezes - but it's too late to go back now, since she's already perched halfway in his lap. She decides desperate times call for desperate measures and grabs his face gently, guiding him to look at her. "Stiles," she says, as firmly as she can while still trying to soothe him. "Look at me."

He does, his mouth opening and closing several times as if he's trying to speak but can't find the words. Lydia is still babbling soothing nonsense when he kisses her.

It's sudden and unexpected, but it's not violent or aggressive; it's hardly even a kiss, really, just his lips brushing hers for a moment before he pulls away. Lydia freezes, and for a second they just stare at each other. Stiles's breathing has slowed but he looks almost surprised, like he can't believe he just did that. Lydia can't quite believe it either.

"Sorry," Stiles finally says. "I - I don't know why I did that."

 _Liar_ , Lydia thinks. "I do," she says instead. "You needed to hold your breath."

"Mouth-to-mouth contact isn't exactly the only way to do that - not even the optimal way, really. It's borderline inconvenient, so I'm pretty sure it was kind of out of line for me to do that," Stiles says. "What? What's funny?"

"Nothing," Lydia says, smiling. "You haven't talked that fast in months."

"Is that - is that a good thing or a bad thing?" Stiles asks.

Lydia realizes then that he's got one hand resting on her hip - however, Stiles doesn't seem to have noticed yet, because he's absentmindedly stroking the sequins on her dress, his gaze fixed on her face. The touch is intimate, delicate. Lydia can't remember the last time a boy touched her this gently. She drops her gaze, mouth twitching into a half-smile, and doesn't answer his question. "Are you okay now?"

"Now is a relative term."

" _Right_  now," she clarifies, rolling her eyes a bit. Her legs are starting to cramp from this awkward position she's in, but she doesn't move back to her seat just yet. She knows that in a moment she'll have to pull away, away from his hand on her hip and the starry-eyed look on his face, but she can't give him up just yet.

"Yeah," he says, softly. "I'm okay right now."

An edge of sadness is returning to his voice, and Lydia wants to get rid of it. "You're going to be okay, Stiles," she tells him. "You will be. Look at me, after all." It feels funny, acknowledging that she'd ever been broken, but it's the truth. There's no point in hiding it from the one person who understands all too well.

He smiles wryly. "I think you're a lot stronger than I am."

"That's not true," Lydia says. "It's not and you know it."  _You are strong_ , she wants to tell him.  _You're just as strong as I am because we're the same. You're tethered to me._

She kisses him again, because she's quickly realizing that waiting around for him to have panic attacks is definitely not the most satisfying option for either of them. He's still for a second, but then he's kissing her back, and for a moment, Lydia forgets about everything. It's just them, and it's good. It's the best thing that's happened in months.

They part after a few moments, and Stiles just looks at her for a minute, smiling faintly, before saying, "I think I messed up your hair. Sorry."

Lydia shrugs, confident in her ability to work hair magic. "I've got a brush in my clutch. I can fix it."

Stiles glances over at the passenger seat, where Lydia's tiny silver bag is waiting. "How did you fit -?" he begins, but then he stops and shakes his head in amazement. "Girls."

Lydia rolls her eyes, trying (and failing) not to smile. She finally moves back to the passenger seat, mostly to work on fixing her hair. "Do you want to get something to eat?" she asks him. It doesn't seem like they're going to make it back to prom, and that's fine with Lydia. Everyone already saw her dress, so what does it matter? Just then, her bag gives a faint but audible buzz.

"Just you and me?" Stiles asks as she opens her clutch and checks her phone. She's got a text from Scott.  _Are you guys okay?_

 _Yes_ , she sends back, before sliding her phone back into her bag. They are okay right now, and that's good enough.

"Just you and me," Lydia agrees. Stiles grins.


End file.
